


Fun House

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: Prick and Perforate [4]
Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Drug metaphors sodomy and existential crises, M/M, the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:02:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8971117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: I came to play, I mean, play around.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's a series! At last, the long-awaited- by me, anyway- final installment.  
> The title of this story and the quote in the summary come from the song Fun House, by the Stooges.  
> I am not involved in the production of Twin Peaks, and this school is not involved in the production of Twin Peaks. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

Maybe he's cracking up, but sometimes- he's sure that he can feel Harry before he's there. Feel him driving down the street, getting closer by degrees. It puts Hank in mind of those stories about dogs sitting by the door, because they know when their masters are supposed to come home. So, obviously, that makes Hank the dog. Maybe that's what he is.  
Because he knows when Harry's coming. The nights are getting warmer, so Norma's not putting on the heat anymore. It's fine for her, with her down comforter, but it's a lot less cozy in Hank's room. He should be used to the cold, but he's not, and it makes it hard to sleep. Sometimes, he thinks of getting into bed with Norma. Just to see what she would do. Then, because he's free in his thoughts, at least, he imagines her rolling into his arms. Her nightgown slips away like a bad dream. And then, he's just kissing her, his hands on her tits and between her legs, just feeling her. That's all he really wants to do. Just feel her. Any way she wants him to. In his dreams, she's telling him, all about what she wants from him; what she's been missing. She misses him.  
The nights aren't that warm. They're long and silent, flat. He lies in bed when he can't sleep, turned in on himself, wrapped up like a caterpillar. He thinks about Norma. He thinks about Harry. He eventually sinks into sleep that's like half-melted snow, dirty slush that chills his bones. Until the night rolls around that he perceives something different. It always takes him a while to figure it out. Once he does, it's warmth spreading through him. Harry's driving down the street. He's parking his car. He's letting himself into the house. He's walking down the hall. He's opening Hank's door. He's closing it behind him. He's taking off his clothes. He's getting into bed with Hank. He's wrapping around Hank, hands hot and twitchy. Maybe Hank doesn't know anything. Maybe Harry's just bound to routine and always waits a certain number of days, and Hank just doesn't notice because he's either recovering or wanting. Just like a junkie. They don't want to know you unless they're fiending. Then, suddenly, they're your best friend. You could plot the days by their cycles of attraction and repulsion. When they need it, the need pours off of them like waves of perfume. You can can smell them from across the room.  
Hank pretends to be asleep. It's fun to feel Harry fumble at him, not sure of what to do. Should he just let Hank sleep? Should he say something?  
Should he just keep touching him, like this. Breathing out short, hot breaths onto the back of Hank's neck, hands creeping under his pajamas. How far would Harry take it, if Hank didn't wake up? That, Hank truly wants to know. There's no way to find out, though. No one could actually sleep through this.  
He turns around, faces Harry. Puts his arms around him.  
“I missed you,” he says.  
Harry says nothing.  
Hank kisses him. Slowly, so that Harry can realize fully what's happening, Hank rolls him onto his back. Harry looks up at him, eyes wide in the dark.  
“I know you missed me, too,” Hank says, “I bet you've been thinking about me.”  
“Yeah? And what have I been thinking?”  
“What you did to me, last time.”  
“It seems like we both have.”  
“No one on the outside's done it to me like that in years. It felt like the first time.”  
“That's very romantic.”  
Hank shakes his head. “Don't say it like that.”  
“Okay,” says Harry. Like he means it.  
Hank thinks he does, so he kisses Harry again. Let's him feel Hank on top of him, his weight and the heat of his body. His heartbeat. His hips against Harry's. His legs entangled with Harry's. How much he wants Harry, all of that desire, making him strong and making him weak.  
“What's it like?” Harry asks.  
Hank knows what he means, but still asks for clarification. Harry has to say it. If he says it, then it's real.  
“What's it like when someone fucks you?”  
“I could show you.”  
“Just tell me.”  
“You're not going to like it the first time. Even if they're careful, it still hurts. You might feel a tickle, but that's about it. The rest is just pain.”  
“But you like it.”  
“Yes. I do.”  
“Does it still hurt?”  
“Sometimes.”  
“Like last time.”  
Hank smiles. “Yeah.”  
“I want you to do it to me.”  
“Say it.”  
Harry tilts his head back, probably trying to look defiant, but only looking reckless, ready to be hurt, showing Hank his throat. “I want you to fuck me.”  
“You want me inside of you.”  
Harry makes a face, hesitates. Hank can wait. “Yes.”  
“Say it.” Hank rubs up against Harry as he says it, lets Harry feel him.  
“I want you inside of me.”  
“All right.”  
The first thing you learn is what not to do. Because it's probably what was done to you. Either you try to do better, or you do the same thing that hurt you, because hurting someone else makes you hurt less. It's a game. But you can't win, because you're only ever playing against yourself. Who wants to play that game in the dark, when it's cold, and the whole world's dead, and won't be alive again until morning.  
If then.  
His clothes fall away like a changing stage backdrop. He's naked against Harry, cold where the sheets are dragged to the side, leaving him with both feelings at once, heat and chill. Velvet warmth from Harry's body unwinding him, within. He could just keep going like this, fucking himself against Harry's hip, kissing Harry. It's all he wants, suddenly. But he promised more. Maybe it is a game, here, in the dark. But it isn't his game. It's Harry's. He's just a piece in it.  
He gets Harry up on his hands and knees. Fucks him for a long time with just one finger. Lets Harry get used to it, having part of another person's body in him. As muscle has to shift to accommodate a foreign object, so your mind has to shift to deal with what's happening.  
“You have to relax,” Hank says.  
“I'm trying.”  
You have to get used to the idea of your body not being your own anymore. It's like with vampires: once you let someone in, the door's open forever.  
Open it a little bit more.  
Harry shakes, swallows the sound that wants to escape him. Hank pushes in deeper, bends his fingers as much as he can. Harry tightens around them. Unable, now, to be completely silent, he lets out a long, trembling breath. Hisses in a new one, like the sound of paper being torn.  
“You like that?” Hank asks. Because he can.  
Harry doesn't answer. The way his body twitches and contracts tells the whole story. Trying not to like it, wondering how you can, while you sweat and palpitate and wish for it be over, as well as to never end.  
Hank pulls out his fingers. Lets Harry get used to being empty again. Wipes them clean with a handkerchief. He's hard, like an afterthought. Somehow, in all of this, he forgot about himself. It was like Harry's body was his body. One body for both of them.  
He smiles.  
As he works himself into Harry, the impulse comes to think about something else. Oh- think about something important. Perhaps to mark the occasion. You only get one first time. He can't think of anything. Just feel and breathe and move.  
“How does that feel?” he asks. All on its own, like a toy mechanism, his head tilts back.  
When Harry doesn't answer, he asks, “Should I stop?”  
He can stop, and still get off. When you learn to live with nothing, you can do a lot with any old thing. This, this will last for years. It's in his bones. Inside of him. It's the taste in his mouth, and the beating in his veins and arteries. It is him, now.  
But Harry says, hoarse and disconnected, “No. Don't stop.” He repeats, “Don't stop.”  
And then, he's inside of Harry. Wondering how it's possible, how it happened, how long it can last. Feels Harry- so tight that he all but blots out all feeling. So that all that Hank knows is this crush of heat, making everything else in the world recede. “Hold the headboard,” he hears himself say. Waits as Harry pulls himself up, rearranges himself. He falls forward a little, his front to Harry's back. This is better. He can touch Harry now. He does that- for what seems like a very long time. Not even fucking Harry with any real conviction, just moving himself idly, his hands on Harry, bowing his head to press his mouth to Harry's neck.  
Of course, it can't go on forever. Nothing this good can. The body has its own needs, and it finds a way to fulfill them, whatever you soul might want. What your soul wants is eternity. What your body wants is now. Finally, he's just holding onto Harry, fucking him as hard as he dares; as fast, because he needs it to be over. God, he needs it. He needs.  
He pulls out, probably too rough, comes between Harry's legs. His heart has taken up residence in his head, hammering his skull like it doesn't like the shape. He doesn't ask how it was. The first time is always bad. “Lie down,” he says, his hands on Harry again, as though Harry can't move on his own. He's touching him like he can't stop. When he kisses him, he doesn't think he'll be able to stop doing that, either. “Tell me what you want.” He sounds to himself like he's begging. Maybe he is. It should disgust him, but it doesn't. When you need something, that need is never disgusting to you. Disgust is a function of time and memory. Apparently, Hank isn't finished needing.  
Harry moves his hand down.  
“Show me what to do,” Hank says.  
In the dark, Harry turns his head, looks at him. Hank doesn't know why. There's nothing to see.  
“Show me,” Hank repeats, softly.  
Harry places his hand over Hank's, moves it slowly.  
“Is that how you want it?”  
“Yeah,” Harry says.  
He moves, so that he's on top of Harry. The better to feel him, so warm in the cold room. Making Hank's body both hot and cold. Two things at once. Hank's strong, but he's weak. When his wrist cramps, he goes down on Harry. Licks his sticky thighs. Holds his hips. Lets Harry come in his mouth.  
Then, he's kissing Harry again, Harry leaning up into him. Holding onto him, arms around his neck. Locking him in, and locking him up. Putting him away forever, someplace where there's no space, no light. Nothing, at all. Like the prisoner Hank is.


End file.
